


Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes

by GiggleSnortBangDead



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (a lot of crying), Age Regression/De-Aging, Crying, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kid Aziraphale, Kid Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21878410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiggleSnortBangDead/pseuds/GiggleSnortBangDead
Summary: Being a kid is hard, which is why angels and demons start to miracle each other into children. That, and it's less paperwork.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 160





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pinafortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinafortuna/gifts).



> Ho ho ho, Merry Christmas to shabnam_e_maghz for whom this is a gift! You are a great friend, and I really appreciate having you in my life!
> 
> also the title is from the Jimmy Buffet song "Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes" because i think that's funny

Aziraphale didn’t know which side has started the practice, but the first time he’d seen defensive readjustment performed, it was Gabriel’s doing. 

In Rome, Crowley had agreed to see him once more, to have an informal parley over drinks. Aziraphale had been feeling so very confident in his diplomatic skills that he hadn’t asked for prior authorization. Management didn’t need to know, because these were preliminary talks, to see if the enemy was open to a permanent peace deal and not the rather frigid conflict they’d entered while waiting for the flag to drop and start the war. And if the talks were more about clothes, the return of Claudius, or the drink and the food, it was only to establish familiarity and set a precedence of civility. 

He didn’t expect Gabriel to walk in a minute after Crowley, when Crowley had just gotten their drinks and was about to sit down. Gabriel’s face shifted minutely, blank to casual disgust. With a flash, he was behind Aziraphale, hauling him to his feet.

Crowley stopped his approach. 

“It’s lucky I came down,” Gabriel said, overly loud, although the rest of the taberna patrons didn’t notice. “Surprise observations really are invaluable, even if you keep saying they just get in the way. You were about to be poisoned by a demon. Can’t you tell?” he asked, the hand curled around Aziraphale’s arm squeezing enough to make him wince.

“Well, you see—” Aziraphale was starting to explain, sure he could set it right if just given a moment. 

Gabriel snapped his fingers, and Crowley was _gone_. Or not gone, Aziraphale realized after a second. Smaller. Drowned in his robes, Crowley’s too small hands couldn’t quite keep a grip on their cups, and he dropped one. When it shattered, he made a sound, and his voice—it wasn’t his voice. His dark glasses slid off his tiny nose and the obnoxious gold laurels fell straight off his head and onto his shoulders. His little snake eyes blinked up at Aziraphale from across the room, and Aziraphale felt his own lips trembling, which was the wrong thing to do because it abruptly morphed Crowley’s confusion into panic. 

Aziraphale was then being yanked away and out of the taberna before he could fix it or tell Crowley that he was all right. Gabriel walked at a pace Aziraphale could barely keep up with.

“We’re going upstairs,” he said, and then sighed. “At least this is less paperwork.”

* * *

That was part of why both sides had started to perform defensive readjustment. It didn’t generally call for retaliation, as it was less paperwork all around. No new bodies had to be issued, and there needn’t be arguments over who had violated the provisional peace. 

Readjustment was mostly just embarrassing for the afflicted, who was jolted down to a seemingly random child’s age with little control over their power. They still had their knowledge of the universe but had variable cognitive and emotional development to appropriately comprehend it. The biggest risk though was location, as there were places where it was very awful to be a child alone. 

Usually, when the body hit its teen years, the readjusted had control over themselves enough to reset. It gave the afflictor plenty of time to settle their affairs, report in, and relocate. 

The first time it had happened to Crowley, it hadn’t been so bad. As far as Aziraphale understood it, Crowley was a beautiful little boy who could perform minor miracles and was therefore taken to a temple and set up in devotional training. 

“But weren’t you afraid?” Aziraphale asked more than once, his chest tugging. 

Crowley often smiled, usually shrugged, and always drank more. “The hardest thing was leaving the temple when I’d grown back up,” he said, later one night. “Children,” he explained, “Get attached.” 

Aziraphale had noticed that about children, but then he’d noticed it about most humans and many animals and himself especially.

* * *

The second time was Aziraphale’s fault too. They were stepping out of a crepery, and Aziraphale was laughing as Crowley said something in French that he imagined must be very dirty.

“Principality Aziraphale, we received word that you were in trouble,” some low level guardian said from behind. Aziraphale only knew their name because he was a member of the Host, and he turned on his heel hoping to block Crowley from Adhial’s line of sight. “Something about getting yourself locked in a human containment cell and being too timid to miracle yourself out.” 

“Ahh.” Aziraphale forced a smile. “How did you know?”

Adhial stared at him, unspeaking and unblinking for a moment. Aziraphale could hear Crowley sneaking away. “Principality Aziraphale, you prayed.” 

“Oh, well, I pray often.” Aziraphale laughed, stilted. He’d sent out a flippant _Oh, God_ when he had been shackled, but that was more because the metal had been cold. He’d also called out when he’d seen Crowley, but it hadn’t been the first time so he’d thought the Almighty didn’t take much interest in their Arrangement. “I don’t mean to be ungrateful for the Divine Intervention.” He refrained from pointing out that it would have been far too late to save him if he really had needed it. 

“How did you break free, without a miracle?” Adhial looked very unhappy to be there, and likely had to file a report regardless of if anything noteworthy took place. 

“Talking, mostly. I’ve made a friend,” he explained. “You know how it can be with friends.” Adhial’s mouth opened to say something about how, with the Host, friends were an unnecessary venture. “In situations like this, I mean. Being friendly.” 

“I’ll leave you,” Adhial said, turning away. Aziraphale exhaled and looked around to see if Crowley was still nearby so they could properly say farewell. All of a sudden, the guardian shouted: “ _You!_ ”

Aziraphale figured he was the one being called, so he turned, only to see that Crowley had pressed himself into a dark alley, seemingly waiting for Adhial to take their leave as well. Adhial, unfortunately, spotted him and was now pointing with one, divine finger. 

“Erk,” Crowley said, looking to Aziraphale for help.

“He must be the one who got you captured,” Adhial said. There was a snap, and Crowley was diminished. 

“I’m not sure that was necessary,” Aziraphale said before he could stop himself. 

“I wanted to do at least _something_ down here.” Adhial’s shoulders relaxed. They smiled and clapped Aziraphale on the back, like they hadn’t despised him 30 seconds ago. Then Adhial disappeared, back off to Heaven. 

Aziraphale approached carefully as Crowley was trying to adjust his oversized clothes so they weren’t so awkward. He looked up at Aziraphale, face scrunched in his aggravation. He looked about 10 or 11, which wasn’t so bad. “My _shoes_ ,” he whined, kicking his feet to show. They were much too big, so Aziraphale snapped without thinking, everything resizing. He immediately felt nauseated; there was no way to account for this miracle, and he had to assume he was still being monitored.

What was he going to _do_ with Crowley like this? 

He straightened up, and Crowley looked on, mouth pressed in a very firm line, the expression seeming almost comically severe on a child—on a demon that _looked_ like a child. “I can’t,” Aziraphale said, and then his breath choked all at once. “I can’t take you with me.” There was the travel, and Adhial could come back at any moment, especially after such a specific miracle, and the worst thing for both of them would be to get caught like this. 

Crowley’s hair had fallen out of its coif, curling around his thin shoulders. The sunglasses still hid his eyes, but his head was shaking and his fists were clenched. He was saying in his high, wobbly voice: “You can’t leave me here. Please don’t leave me here.” He was trying not to cry, his little, freckled face going pink with the strain. 

Aziraphale kneeled down in front of him. He took off his glasses, and Crowley blinked, eyes starkly yellow against all the red. No, Aziraphale couldn’t leave him here; not with the Catholics and certainly not with the indiscriminate killing machine. A little boy with snake eyes couldn’t possibly find a way here. 

“I helped you,” Crowley told him, miserably. “I got you out so they couldn’t kill you, and now you’re—you’re just going to _leave_ me!”

“No.” Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand and pressed the cold flesh between his palms. “No, but we can’t travel to London together. My dear, do you understand? It’s not safe.” 

Crowley was trembling with his effort to not bawl, and he yanked his hand back to fist over his eyes. “I can’t stand you. You’re a coward. I helped you, and—and—” His voice hiccuped.

“Please don’t cry,” Aziraphale begged. His hands fluttered, not knowing if he was allowed to take him in his arms to comfort him. He felt himself close to tears, something in his breast pinching at the devastated sound of Crowley’s wailing. Crowley made the decision for him, throwing his arms—thin, they were so thin and light, like birds’ bones—around his shoulders. Aziraphale held him tight, not knowing what to do but let Crowley cry himself out against him. 

When Crowley had simmered to sniffling, Aziraphale pulled back a ways to look at him. He’d lost his handkerchief with his nice clothes, and therefore had to use his thumbs to swipe away tears and the rough material of his jacket sleeve to make an initial attempt at his nose. 

“I’ll hire us two coaches,” Aziraphale said as softly as possible. Crowley was already shaking his head. “Yes, dear, two coaches. You’ll set out one day ahead of me—no, darling, we can’t go at the same time, but I’ll see you off. And in each place you stop, I’ll have you leave something for me so I know that you’re safe. And if you don’t leave something, I’ll know where to look for you. I’ll only ever be one day behind, and when we get to Calais, we’ll figure out—” _what’s to be done with you_ sounded cruel. “How to get across The Channel,” he settled on. Crowley blinked his swollen, wet eyes. He looked like he’d cried himself exhausted. “Poor dear,” Aziraphale said, his heart aching. 

“I don’t want to go before you,” Crowley voiced. Aziraphale nodded; he knew that. 

“This will be safest. It’ll just be a few days.” 

Crowley snatched his sunglasses back from Aziraphale’s hand. “These are mine.” 

“Yes, of course.” 

“Can’t you just pop us back over?” Crowley whined, awkwardly putting his sunglasses back on, still sniffling occasionally. 

“No, I think that would end very badly for the both of us.” Aziraphale fiddled with his ring. Crowley went back to glaring at his feet. When Aziraphale tried to smooth his hair, he flinched away. _Oh, God,_ his heart called without permission. 

He stood. He offered Crowley his hand so they wouldn’t get separated when they left the alley and were surrounded by people again. 

While it was difficult to set up two coaches short notice and with limited French, the drivers seemed used enough to the English they they were able to manage.

“You father?” one asked. It was still dark, and they were waiting for dawn to set out. Crowley had fallen asleep the moment they’d sat down. Aziraphale had taken off his jacket and used it as a blanket over Crowley’s tiny frame as Crowley used his lap as a pillow. Crowley, at least as an agitated child, kicked in his sleep, and so Aziraphale was very happy to have the top end of him. 

“Er…” He wasn’t sure how to explain it. “Yes,” he decided. “I am.” 

When dawn broke, Crowley was still asleep. As he moved him to the carriage, Crowley didn’t stir. He set beside him the cut tulips that they’d agreed Crowley was to hide and secure for him at every coach stop.

“Why not ride with him?” the other coachman asked. 

“I have to stay.” 

That sounded like business, so the coach driver shrugged, checking the horses and supplies. “Dit au revoir à ton papa,” he said through the window, where they could see that Crowley was starting to wake up from the noise. 

He blinked a few times, realization dawning. “Already?” he asked. “You’re leaving already?” 

“I’m sorry, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, which didn’t sound like enough. “It’ll just be for a few days, and then we’ll figure it out.” 

Crowley cross his arms and kicked his feet in the seat. He wouldn’t look at him.

“You’ll remember the flowers?” Aziraphale checked, voice going strained as the coachman climbed up to his perch. They’d be gone so soon. His heart constricted. “Please, Crowley.” 

“Fine.” Crowley glanced over. “Bye.” 

“Goodbye, my dear.” Aziraphale stepped back. Crowley looked fit to cry again, or maybe scream at him. Aziraphale saw them off. Only when they were yards away did he see Crowley’s tiny face in the window, checking to see if he was still watching. 

At every stop, Aziraphale found a tulip, usually pressed under a stone so it wouldn’t be removed by the elements. Adhial never reappeared, nor did any other angel for that matter, which made Aziraphale feel very foolish. It was hard to remember why he’d insisted except that he didn’t quite want to see what his side was capable of when faced with the enemy as child. 

Crowley wasn’t waiting for him at the docks, or at the closest tavern like he and Aziraphale had agreed upon. Aziraphale checked the nearby boarding houses, becoming increasingly worried. But when Aziraphale stepped into a cafe to collect himself, the proprietor hopped up and started shouting at him in rapid French, which Aziraphale couldn’t at all follow. After looking on dumbly for a few seconds, the man fetched a note and some dying tulips from the back. 

The note said _You don’t have to worry about me._ which surprisingly did not stop Aziraphale one bit.

He returned to London, hoping Crowley had boarded a ship himself. Maybe he had. They didn’t see each other for another ten years.

* * *

“You’re quite good with him,” Aziraphale said. It was not the first time he’d seen Crowley act exceptionally with children. But as they were living so closely and seeing each other daily, the words had built up in Aziraphale’s chest. They’d felt larger with every moment, until they spilled out after two Old Fashioneds. “Do you think...”

“Hm?” Crowley asked, long legs thrown over the arm of the love seat, kitten heels deposited below. 

“It was just a passing thought, but do you think you might be so skilled with children on account that you’ve been a child yourself, twice?” 

“Three times,” Crowley said, holding up as many fingers. “Zapped me to a tot, some angel did. Principality in Neustria. Got taken in by a mayor, raise up, paraded around until I was old enough to snap out.”

“Oh, I had no idea!” Aziraphale felt appalled. Three times, and Crowley had been forced to rely on humans. Aziraphale hadn’t done a single thing to help. 

“Thing was, the majordomo, he wasn’t very good with kids.” Crowley didn’t look bothered, but it was hard to be sure with the dark glasses and low light. “Absolutely terrible if you ask me, but I guess the standard was different then. We never liked each other, but I promised to help him take the throne when I got full control of my powers.” 

“And did you?” 

Crowley grinned sharply. “No.” 

“I didn’t think so.” Aziraphale kept it to himself that he believed, in this particular case, deceit and treachery to have been the appropriate choice. 

“My point is,” Crowley continued, “He was a kid once, and that didn’t stop him from being a prat. It’s the same with loads of ex-children.” And here, the familiar voice of Crowley sans Nanny-accent got quieter. “I think I was always good with kids. Since the first ones, or at least around then.” 

“I suppose you’re right.”

“So, sorry,” Crowley said, whole demeanor shifting, lips curling. “You’re rubbish with kids because you’re rubbish with kids.”

“I am not!” Aziraphale huffed. 

“I remember how terrified you were last time I got readjusted.” This was said like it was very funny. 

Aziraphale downed his drink, tempted to steal Crowley’s and down it too. “That’s not why I was upset. Not really.” 

“It wasn’t so bad,” Crowley told him. They’d never talked about it. “I wasn’t sent too deep, so I was able to change back in a few years.” If that was true, Aziraphale didn’t know why Crowley had taken so long to make contact again. He had an idea, and that was that Crowley had been upset and unable to forgive Aziraphale for his behavior during the situation. Aziraphale figured that was fair.

“Have you ever been…?” Crowley didn’t say the word. 

“No.” Aziraphale wasn’t sure anything in the universe terrified him as much as the idea. 

“Ever seen it done to an angel, though?” 

Aziraphale hesitated. “Once, with Gabriel. They tried to remove him from his duties, to keep him secluded while he aged up, but he would always break out and try to resume his responsibilities.” 

Crowley smiled, all teeth. “Peewee Gabe came down here to boss you around.” 

“Yes. He also ate everything in my kitchen and made himself sick. It’s why he can’t stand food to this day.” Aziraphale, too, had been put off by the mess Gabriel had left behind. Their working relationship had never quite recovered from that, even though Aziraphale hadn’t told the other angels. 

“What a twat,” Crowley laughed. Aziraphale smiled, but he tried to look disapproving about it. “He’s not wrong though,” Crowley said, after a moment’s thought. “Growing can make you hungry. The whole thing is so bloody inefficient. You feel a lot of—of need.” Crowley explained.

Aziraphale shuddered. He couldn’t imagine. He had wants, and he always had means of fulfilling them. He supposed he had needs, for companionship and purpose and light affection. But they were satisfied, and so he never quite felt them. He hoped very much to keep it that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part two is a-coming


	2. Chapter 2

They helped (or at least watched) the Apocalypse be thwarted. They survived each other’s execution. They went to the Ritz, and then he drove Aziraphale back to the bookshop. Crowley went to his flat for just a minute to yell at his plants; he hadn’t wanted to with Aziraphale staying over. He also grabbed a Riesling he’d gotten from somewhere sometime and never got around to. His spirits had felt understandably high. 

Something felt off from the moment he stepped into the bookshop. He’d expected Aziraphale to already be sunk into his chair, flipping through one of his books. Maybe he would have accepted being greeted by the sound of him puttering about the kitchen. But the lights were off, and the bulbs were smoking like they’d been blown. Worse, there was a sweet, fizzy smell, indicating someone had miracled something a bit bigger than a few clean wineglasses from the rack. 

Worst of all, there was a hiccuping crying coming from deeper in the shop. The sound was small, high. It pinched in Crowley’s throat, making his chest ache. He approached slowly. Aziraphale had hidden himself in the stacks, facing the wall, sniveling and shuddering as he tried to breathe in a tiny body. He didn’t seem to notice Crowley’s approach, so Crowley crouched down. 

“Hey, angel,” he said. 

Aziraphale’s shoulders shot up, like he had been caught doing something wrong. Crowley could see he was tensed up and shaking even through his overlarge clothes. Aziraphale wiped at his face violently, one final snuffling breath escaping before he gathered his jacket around himself and turned. 

His eyes were red and puffy, his nose needed blowing, and he looked petrified. Crowley had never been _this_ young, but he remembered the disorientation, the way his insides had had to shift to accommodate the outsides. Everything around him had suddenly seemed huge and imposing, and simultaneously his development had disappeared. Small motor skills could be a struggle, language—which had never been Crowley’s strong suit to start with—was more difficult and meaning elusive, and everything he’d felt had overwhelmed him and been magnified by his inability to do much of anything. 

“Hi,” Crowley said again, slowly and lightly and so carefully. 

Aziraphale’s lips trembled and he clasped his tiny, chubby hands in front of himself. Crowley might have laughed at the familiar gesture if Aziraphale didn’t look so much like a trapped animal. “Gabriel—” he started to say and then winced with his whole body, unused to his own voice and disturbed by it. Crowley nodded to make it clear that he’d understood. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” Crowley told him, because he would make sure it was. Aziraphale shook his head, so Crowley said a firmer: “No, it’s going to be okay. It’s not the end of the world,” he said, and then cringed at himself. That was a joke for the other Aziraphale. Crowley barreled on so maybe he wouldn’t notice. “Gabriel did it because they don’t know what to do about you—about us, right? Did he say anything else?” Crowley nudged. 

It was absolutely the wrong time for this line of questioning. Aziraphale started to gasp, unable to breathe, crying in earnest. “He said—he—” but he couldn’t get it out, practically choking. Crowley gave up waiting for Aziraphale to come to him because he couldn’t bear it, and he shuffled forward just a few steps. 

“That’s all right,” he said. “Let’s just take a deep breath, okay? Let’s do it together.” 

“Please don’t leave me,” Aziraphale sobbed, working himself up even more. He hid his face behind his hands, his shoulders wracked and quavering. 

“I’m not leaving. See,” he said, trying to get Aziraphale to look, “I’m right here.”

“You’re going to leave. You’re going to leave me because I left you.” 

Crowley flinched, and luckily Aziraphale was still covering his eyes with his fists. “No, I’m not leaving. Aziraphale, can you look at me, please?” Aziraphale shook his head. Crowley hesitated. “Can I touch you?” he asked. It got Aziraphale to peek an eye at him. 

When he finally nodded, Crowley clasped his hands over Aziraphale’s shoulders. He rubbed his palms down his arms, squeezing lightly, trying to warm him up with gentle pressure. “I’m not going anywhere,” Crowley promised. “Can you say that back to me? Can you say ‘Crowley, you’re not going anywhere,’ for me?” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and winced again at his own little voice, shrinking even more. If he got any smaller, Crowley thought wildly, he’d disappear. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Crowley sighed, and he pulled Aziraphale against him without thinking, holding him tight against his chest. “That’s right,” he said. Aziraphale’s head tucked under his chin, his stubby fingers clutching his jacket. "I'm staying with you.”

* * *

When Aziraphale had calmed down enough to let go (and Crowley had calmed down enough to do the same), Crowley resized his clothes and they went back to the kitchen. Crowley put the kettle on and rummaged for some chamomile. Aziraphale stared up at the cabinets with increasing distress, so Crowley told him to sit down. He found biscuits and then a plate to put them on.

“I’ll have to get a ladder,” Aziraphale said softly after he’d climbed up onto his chair. 

Crowley’s stomach squeezed at that because the last thing they needed was Aziraphale monkeying around on some rickety thing and conking his head. “Or you can tell me what you want and I’ll get it.” 

“ _No_ ,” Aziraphale huffed. “That's just—um…” He couldn’t think of the word. “That wouldn’t work.” 

“Why not?” Crowley set the plate on the table, although Aziraphale didn’t reach for it like he’d hoped. “I have pretty long arms.” 

Aziraphale’s voice rose, pitching high and reedy. “This isn’t funny!” At the same time, the top on one of the cabinets popped and the door swung down, only held by its bottom clasp. It made a loud enough thunk that Aziraphale got startled. He held his hands against his chest, like that might stop them from further mucking up his kitchen. 

Crowley snapped and it was fixed, except Aziraphale still looked guilty. The kettle wailed, and Crowley sat down once he’d steeped the tea and gotten out the milk and sugar. 

“Can I even drink that?” Aziraphale asked. “Is it bad for me?” 

“Chamomile’s okay,” Crowley said, cupping his palms around the hot mug. “It’ll help you calm down.” 

Aziraphale brought the mug carefully to his lips. Almost as soon as he took a sip, he gagged, dropping the mug back down against the tabletop with an inelegant slosh. “It tastes bad,” he said, “You made it wrong!” 

Crowley tasted his own. “Mine’s fine.” 

When Aziraphale held out his tiny hands, Crowley passed his drink over. He tried the second mug and shook his head. “It doesn’t taste like it should. There’s something wrong with it.” He was beginning to panic again.

“It’s probably your mouth.” Crowley said as calmly as he could. “Your taste buds are different.” 

All of a sudden, Aziraphale was bawling and the overhead kitchen light was pulsing dangerously. “I won't ever eat again!” he said between sobs. Crowley’s own throat got tight, and his head was starting to hurt because he’d only _just_ gotten Aziraphale to calm down. 

“How about hot cocoa instead?” he asked, after desperately glancing around the kitchen. Aziraphale shook his head, and Crowley panicked. “Er, well, I want some,” he blurted out. “But I don’t know how to make it. Can you help me?” 

Crying subsided to snuffling, and Aziraphale blinked wetly at him. “You don’t know?”

Crowley actually had a pretty good idea. “No,” he said, smiling a little at his own offered ignorance. “Do you think you could show me?” 

Aziraphale pushed away from the table and climbed off the chair slowly, wary of its height. He went to the fridge and took out the milk, boosting up on his toes to get it on the counter. He went back for the heavy cream. Crowley sat, watching him, until Aziraphale eyed him back, face scrunching up. He was nervous, and Crowley just stared on like an idiot because he was so small and he was wearing that little suit and he looked just like Aziraphale: soft and very fragile. 

“Do you want me to make it?” he asked, glancing at the stove, which was too high, and the cabinets beyond. 

Crowley sprang up, making Aziraphale jump a little at how fast he towered above him. Before he could drop the cream, Crowley carefully took it from him and put it on the counter. “What else do we need?” 

Aziraphale walked him through the necessities: the saucepan, the chocolate, and what to put in first.

“How much cream?” he asked. Aziraphale had perched on his tip-toes, hands on the counter to support himself as he supervised. 

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale tried to push himself up higher. “I just look and know.” 

Crowley watched him and Aziraphale watched back. “Can I put you on the counter?” he asked, and Aziraphale seemed all right with the idea, so Crowley hoisted him up ( _he was so light! he was so small!_ ) so he could gauge as Crowley poured. “Don’t touch the stove.” 

“Obviously.” Aziraphale leaned over precariously. 

“Say when.” 

Aziraphale measured with focus and severity, his mouth pursed and brow crinkled. His feet kicked as they dangled and he said: “When… When! When, Crowley!” 

“Whoops,” Crowley said, and added a little milk to even it out. “I guess I’ll have extra.” Aziraphale didn’t look impressed. “Do I add the chocolate now or after it boils?” 

“You _don’t_ boil the milk.” Aziraphale explained with much care. 

“Oh.” Crowley turned the heat on.

“You put the chocolate in once it’s _steamed_ ,” he impressed upon him. 

“Okay.” Crowley nodded, and he snuck a glance and a smile at him. “So chocolate goes in once it’s boiled.” 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale whined. “You have to listen!” 

“I heard you. Milk. Boil. Chocolate. Heard the main bits.” 

“That’s the wrong bits!” Aziraphale’s legs kicked a bit harder, banging his heels against the counter. He looked between the saucepan and Crowley, who made sure to wink. He huffed, crossed his arms, and slumped back. 

Crowley added in the chocolate at the right time and started stirring, and Aziraphale leaned in again, nearly resting his palms on the stovetop. “You can’t stir it like that!” he demanded, already reaching over the top of the pot to steal the spoon.

“Agh!” Crowley choked, one hand bracketing Aziraphale before there was any kind of mishap with the open flame. Aziraphale squirmed, trying to push by him. “All right, damn it,” he said, handing the spoon over to Aziraphale and then picking him up again. Keeping him at an arm’s length, he held him up by his underarms and let Aziraphale stir in the chocolate. 

Aziraphale flailed and tried to turn around, making Crowley’s grip all the more perilous. “You’re not looking. You won’t know how to do it if you don’t watch.” 

Crowley grumbled something quietly because it wasn’t appropriate for children to hear which normally didn’t stop him but with Aziraphale he’d never hear the end of it. They reconfigured one last time, Crowley resting Aziraphale on his hip so they could both look down at the cocoa. Aziraphale handed the spoon back and used his hand to guide Crowley’s. “Like this,” he said, and Crowley felt a rush of relief because bratty was a far step above disconsolate crying.

“Like this?” he asked.

“Hmm.” Aziraphale scrunched up his nose. “That’s almost it.”

“You better keep showing me then.” 

When it was finished, Crowley poured two mugs and Aziraphale didn’t even pretend to not want his. Crowley’s drink cooled in front of him while Aziraphale sipped at his own. “We do an okay job?” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale said into his mug, subdued. 

Crowley rest his chin on his hand and let his heart settle.

* * *

Over the next few hours, he got the full story. Gabriel had been waiting in the bookstore for Aziraphale. Gabriel had “called him some names” and then readjusted him. Gabriel had said he’d come back and do it again and again until they figured out what to do with him. Aziraphale had been scared, and he'd accidentally blown the lights when Gabriel pushed him aside as he left. 

“Can you fix them?” Aziraphale asked, looking up with an increasingly familiar severe expression on his small, round face. “I don’t think I like the dark.”

“Who does?” Crowley snapped his fingers, and they were fixed. The sun would be setting soon anyway.

“You do,” Aziraphale said. He was sitting in his plush reading chair, curling, his shoes discarded and his jacket thrown over the arm. In the renewed light, he blinked at Crowley, watching him as he fiddled with his whiskey tumbler and tried to look cool. 

“Not when I was, you know, like you.” 

Aziraphale gaped at him, his eyes widening. He pushed himself up at attention. “Really?” he squeaked. 

“Oh, yeah. I was scared of loads of things.” Crowley said. Crowley had been afraid of the people around him and what demons might do if they found him. Mostly, he’d been terrified of angels, and of his own loneliness. “Didn’t like storms either. Or dogs.” 

“Dogs?” Aziraphale laughed. “How could you be afraid of dogs?” 

Crowley smiled and shrugged. “You’re very brave,” he said, and Aziraphale beamed, glad that he had noticed. “And even when you’re not feeling brave, I’ll be here, so that’s okay too.” 

Aziraphale turned serious again, glancing at the wall clock. “But you can’t stay here all night. Don’t you have to go home? I guess I could call you. Maybe if you put the telephone a little lower for me?” He looked anxiously over at the phone on its stand, which he might be able to reach but he wouldn’t be able to read the numbers for. 

“I was planning on staying here,” Crowley said slowly. “I’m not planning on leaving you.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale sighed. “You _said_ that. But I know it was only to get me to stop crying. But I’ll be okay!” He pointed up at the ceiling light. “You fixed them, remember?” 

Crowley scooted to the end of the couch, not wanting to crowd Aziraphale but needing to be closer so he could clarify his commitment in some way. “Angel,” he started, “I want to look after you. I know you’re very brave and smart and capable but you—you can’t reach the top cabinet.” 

“I can get a ladder! I told you that.” Aziraphale sniffed. And there was that sick flash again, of Aziraphale tottering off.

“But,” Crowley tried to reason with him, “You don’t have to get a ladder. This is a part of being on our side. We’re going to help each other.”

Aziraphale kept his mouth shut tight, looking around the bookshop. When he spoke it was clear he was hiding his face because he was close to tears again. “But what about when you get bored? Or when I make you mad?” Aziraphale drew his legs up. “What about when Gabriel comes back?” 

“When he comes back,” he started. It came out a bit too rough, so he stopped himself. “I’m going to make sure he doesn’t do anything to hurt you because you’re my best friend and nobody hurts my best friend.” Aziraphale wobbled a smile, and so Crowley sent him one back. “This is going to take some getting used to for you, but we’ll do it together and it’ll be great.”

“Great?” Aziraphale snorted. 

“It’ll be great,” Crowley repeated. “I’ve done this before. You have nothing to worry about.” Crowley held up his fingers. “Three times,” he said with a wink. 

“That’s true.”

“I might even get you to have fun,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale frowned, tempted but dubious. “Fun?” 

“Yeah, angel. Do you know what fun is?” 

“Of course I know!” He then crossed his arms over his chest. “I’d like to see you try!” 

“Okay,” Crowley said with relief. “I’ll try.”

* * *

Aziraphale had fallen asleep in his chair with a book he’d been pretending to read on his lap. When Crowley had suggested reading something else, or even reading together, Aziraphale had gotten so offended, he’d doubled over the untranslated Gogol he’d selected for himself and dutifully flipped the pages every minute and a half to give the pretense of reading. This concentrated effort of spite had exhausted him, and he’d fallen asleep right there, head in the book. 

Crowley, careful, gathered Aziraphale up and laid him on the couch. Aziraphale didn’t keep a bed anywhere, which Crowley thought was incredibly gauche and untenable. But there were enough blankets and pillows to make it cosy. 

When Crowley flipped off the overhead, he couldn’t help but feel the day wearing on him as well. He grabbed an afghan from the back and wrapped himself up on Aziraphale’s reading chair and dozed off.

* * *

Aziraphale had woken up first and trotted off to the kitchen to make hot cocoa and coffee. Luckily, Crowley had anticipated this kind of behavior, and he woke up the moment he heard a chair scraping on the wood flooring. Aziraphale was just climbing onto the seat when Crowley walked in. Upon realizing he was caught, Aziraphale froze, mouth open, blinking as he thought of what to say. 

“How about I take you out for breakfast?” Crowley asked. “We can go to the place down the street.”

“Okay!” Aziraphale piped, scrambling back onto the ground and forgetting his dangerous mission. He scurried into the shop and shoved his feet into his shoes before clumsily trying them and then waiting by the door. 

“I’d like you to hold my hand,” Crowley said. “Just so I don’t lose you.” 

Put upon by this request, Aziraphale sighed. “If it’ll make you feel better.” 

They walked together slowly, or Crowley walked slowly and Aziraphale at his usual pace but with shorter legs. He also became distracted easily, staring up at everyone’s faces as they bustled past. Being out in the daylight, on a busy street, pulled Aziraphale back into himself. He held onto Crowley’s hand tightly and stayed close at his side. 

It wasn’t until the waitress brought Aziraphale pancakes with a chocolate chip smiley face that he seemed ready to talk again, but Crowley had never minded waiting. 

“What do you think about staying with me for a while?” 

“At your flat?” Aziraphale pulled a face to show what he thought of that. He cut a too big bite of pancake and shoved it in his mouth.

“We could make it so you like it,” Crowley offered. “Or we could find somewhere else to live.” 

Aziraphale considered it while he chewed and swallowed. “Why can’t we stay at my shop?” 

“We can, but we’d have to do some renovating.” 

“You mean,” Aziraphale said slowly, “That I’m going to get tired every day and I’ll need a bed.” 

“Yeah,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale frowned because that must not have appealed to him. “But! We also want to make sure you have room to play and for your toys.”

The idea of _play_ and _toys_ made Aziraphale more nervous, clearly reminding him of his strange situation and how ill-suited it felt. “I don’t need toys,” he explained. “I have my books.”

Books that he couldn’t quite read and, even if he could, weren’t likely to keep his attention. Crowley nodded regardless. “Okay. But if we got a house, there’d be lots of room to run around and picnic. We could make some animal friends.” 

“Like Brother Francis!” Aziraphale gasped. He started to fidget again, his feet kicking under the table. “Do you remember,” he started, excited by the thought, “When you were the nanny and I was the gardener?” 

Crowley smiled. “Yes, I remember that.” 

“It’d be like that again!” Aziraphale grinned, and Crowley felt some tension in his spine start to dissipate. “But you can show me how to garden this time!”

“I can do that. And you could tell me all about the animals. Brother Sparrow. Sister Deer.” 

Aziraphale laughed. “Don’t be silly! You know all about them—you know everything! Do you know that?” 

“Well,” Crowley floundered, but secretly enough because Aziraphale had returned to his pancakes, bisecting the smile’s right eye with his butter knife. “You can tell me anyway. I like the way you tell it.” 

“Okay!” Aziraphale said with his mouth full. Crowley, had he had anything to prove, might have felt the need to remind him of his manners. But he’d remember them soon enough, and it was nice to see him carefree. 

The waitress brought Aziraphale another milk and warmed up Crowley’s coffee and told him what an absolutely adorable son he had. If Aziraphale noticed, he didn’t mind. For Crowley, the words sent a shock of purpose through him. It was nothing dire or terrible, like the Antichrist had been. He was going to look out for Aziraphale and make his childhood as painless as possible. And they would do it in the countryside, in the quiet and fresh air.

* * *

Aziraphale was impossibly adorable, which made him very popular with the retirees in the southern coastal township they’d taken a cottage just outside of. All of the old folks loved to dote on “Mr. Crowley’s little angel” whenever Crowley and Aziraphale came into the town proper. 

Crowley couldn’t blame them, even if it was annoying. Aziraphale had refused to get a new wardrobe, instead insisting that Crowley resize everything and help him with his bowtie each morning, as his manual dexterity was still developing. In the quiet calm of the town, Aziraphale was unselfconsciously precocious, more charming than any conman Crowley had ever met and twice as sweet. Pairing that with his blue eyes and fluffy white hair and round face, the retirees never stood a chance. Aziraphale was rewarded with candies and praise and attention, all of which he reveled in as long as no one tried to pinch his cheeks. 

Unfortunately, after a month of popping into town once or twice a week to go to the store and the pub restaurant, people started to get bold. 

“And where’s your mother, little one?” Mrs. Drew asked, and Crowley damn near incinerated her on the spot because it wasn’t any of her business. 

Aziraphale looked skyward, seeming to indicate his Mother. Mrs. Drew misinterpreted the sign and pat a hand over her fluttered heart. “Oh my, you poor dear.” She glanced up at Crowley as she said it, extending the sentiment to him as well.

“It’s okay,” Crowley said with a slick grin. “We didn’t really get along.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, trying to catch his attention.

“Now, really!” Mrs. Drew huffed. “Is that any way to speak of the mother of your child?” 

“ _Crowley_.” Aziraphale tugged on his sleeve.

“Just a minute, love,” he said, ready to really lay into Mrs. Drew, which had been a long time coming as far as Crowley was concerned. 

But before he even broke a sweat, there were tires screeching and someone across the street shouting, and Aziraphale wasn’t at his side. He was in the street, frozen midway in front of a car. 

Crowley felt his heart hop into his mouth, and he was running to Aziraphale, scooping him up and carrying him to the sidewalk as the guy in the car shouted at him to watch his damn kid. All four of his tires popped at once, and Crowley wasn’t sure if he or Aziraphale had done that. 

“What were you doing?” Crowley asked desperately, checking Aziraphale over even if he knew the car hadn’t touched him. “What were you thinking? You know you can’t run into the road like that. Angel, baby, if anything had _happened_ to you—”

“I wanted to say hello,” Aziraphale peeped. He was pale and trembling and he pointed up the sidewalk at a gawking lady with a stroller and a giant St. Bernard. “I wanted to say hello, and she was going to walk away, and then I’d have missed her.” 

“Darling, you can’t leave me like that,” Crowley begged. Aziraphale started to cry then, so Crowley pulled him tight against his chest, shushing him.

“I’m sorry, Crowley,” Aziraphale hitched. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why—”

“No, dearest, it’s okay.You’re okay.” Crowley rocked him lightly, and Aziraphale hung on tight. The man with all the popped tired was on his phone with the tow company, and Mrs. Drew was safely crossing to check on them. 

“If you need any help watching him,” she offered.

Crowley made a rude hand gesture behind Aziraphale’s back, still soothing and shushing him. Mrs. Drew harrumphed and stalked off. The lady with the dog and the baby carriage quit staring and walked away as well. 

Aziraphale held his hand tightly for the rest of their trip and napped in the car ride back to their cottage. 

Later that night, after they’d finished dinner and Aziraphale had had his bath, Crowley asked if Aziraphale had wanted to say hello to the baby or the dog.

“The dog,” Aziraphale said easily as Crowley helped him into his pajamas (the only new additions to his wardrobe). “Can I have a dog, Crowley?”

Sitting back on his heels, Crowley wasn’t sure what to say. “What do dogs do?” 

Aziraphale perked up. “They bark! And they wag! They’re very friendly, and some of them will cuddle with you. And they can do tricks!” 

Crowley had meant that dogs die, and very quickly at that. It might not be ideal for them just at the moment. But that seemed a cruel thing to say, so instead Crowley offered: “Let’s think about it a little more and then make a decision.” 

He put Aziraphale into his bed with its cream and blue sheets and plump, heavy cover. He read to Aziraphale the next story from the Gogol collection, because Aziraphale had insisted that was what he liked and Crowley didn’t see the harm in it. 

When they’d finished and Aziraphale looked ready to drift off, Crowley pressed a kiss to his forehead. “There,” he said, making sure he was all tucked in. “Snug as a hug.” 

“A bug,” Aziraphale corrected. 

“A bug?” Crowley gasped, looking around. “Where?” 

“No!” Aziraphale laughed. “It’s snug as a bug!” 

“Oh, I guess you’re right,” Crowley said. “I thought there was a bug somewhere.” 

“You’re funny,” Aziraphale told him, very happy with that fact. He blinked his eyes shut, close to sleep now. 

“Goodnight, angel.”

“Night.”

* * *

In the morning, Crowley tried to get up before Aziraphale with a 50 percent success rate. He’d then make breakfast while Aziraphale embellished on whatever dreams he’d had the night before. If it was warm enough, and according to Aziraphale it always was, they’d go out and look for new animal friends and say hello to the old ones. 

Lunch was generally noisy, as Aziraphale had a tendency to shout when he was excited which he inevitably was after a trek around the property. Crowley saw no reason to put a stop to that, because there were plenty of worse things than a loud, happy child. After lunch, they gardened. This meant Crowley gardened (without shouting, which was much more difficult) and Aziraphale listened and dozed in the sunniest patch of the greenhouse he could find. Aziraphale always woke up in his bed promptly for teatime, during which no one drank tea. 

If they had shopping to do and they hadn’t gone into town earlier, they’d go and grab dinner. This dinner would be of course ruined for Aziraphale by the sheer volume of sweets bestowed upon him by every grandparent who had rather hoped to see their family this weekend. If they took dinner in, Crowley cooked while Aziraphale helped, unless he got distracted, and then he didn’t help.

Crowley had not yet sold Aziraphale on children’s programming. This was hardly a burden for Crowley as it meant they watched sitcom repeats and Aziraphale laughed along with the canned audience, even if he didn’t understand. 

Aziraphale had desert, and then a bath, and then they read from whatever Aziraphale chose. It was usually something boring and needing on-the-spot translation because Aziraphale was still a bastard. Crowley said goodnight, and Aziraphale said goodnight, and then Crowley fucked off to do whatever adult things he still had the energy for. Generally, he watched a movie in his room and played on his phone and fell asleep before the credits rolled. The TV and lights knew to turn themselves off. 

Crowley couldn’t bring himself to complain, not truly, because he felt relaxed in a way he wasn’t sure he ever had. There were dark things on the horizon, but they all had to wait a little while, just so Aziraphale could grow up.

The only immediate issue, then, was that of the dog, which Aziraphale had tried to be coy about but lacked the subtlety for. Crowley wanted to kick himself for ever admitting dogs had scared him. Even if Aziraphale didn’t mean it, it had to be related. Bastard. 

But as the weather got colder, and as Aziraphale seemed more and more hesitant to let him get on his way each night, Crowley knew he had to do something. 

Just after they'd finished their latest book or two of _Perzival_ and Aziraphale was preparing to put up a fuss about Crowley leaving him to sleep, he said: “I have something for you.” 

Aziraphale sat up a bit. “You do?” 

“Yes.” It had helpfully relocated from Crowley’s closet to just behind him. “Do you want to guess?” 

“No.” 

Crowley laughed, and he pulled the plush, brown-furred toy into view. It was big, with floppy paws and ears and two shiny marble eyes. Really, it was a simple little thing, but it was soft with a friendly face. 

“My dog!” Aziraphale warbled, looking ready to cry, which was not at all what Crowley had intended. 

He held the dog’s head in front of his own. “ _Don’t cry, Aziraphale!_ ” he said in his approximation of what a dog might sound like. “ _I’m so happy to be your friend!_ ”

Aziraphale snuffled, either a laugh or a sob, so Crowley peeked at him; he was smiling. “I know that was you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. ”You can’t trick me.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Crowley held out the dog and Aziraphale scooped him up and hugged him to his chest, laying his cheek against the endlessly soft fur of his belly. “Do you know what you’ll name him? Dogs need names.” 

Aziraphale thought about it. “Crowley,” he decided.

“Urk.” Crowley hadn’t considered that. “Don’t you think that’ll be confusing?” 

“Maybe…” Aziraphale looked around his room for inspiration. “Wolfram.” 

“Wolfram is a brilliant name for a dog.” It was better than Eschenbach, and it was doubly better than Perceval. “Hello, Wolfram,” he said to the stuffed dog. 

Aziraphale drew the dog up and parroted the voice Crowley had used earlier. “ _Hello, Crowley! It’s ever so nice to make your acquaintance!_!”

Crowley shook his paw, because it seemed to be what Aziraphale expected. Then he gave Aziraphale a hug and a kiss on the forehead. “Maybe when it starts snowing and Brother Toad and Sister Hare are all asleep,” (and here Aziraphale started to tell him that was not how winter worked), “We can get Wolfram some friends to play with. All sorts. What do you think?” 

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale worried. “There’s not a lot of space on my bed, and I don’t know where they’d sleep.”

“Hmm.” Crowley paused. “I’m sure we can think up something. But not tonight.” 

“Give Wolfram a kiss and tuck him in too.”

“Of course.”

“Crowley?” 

“Yes, darling?” 

“Thank you.” 

“Ahh,” Crowley choked so he wouldn’t get emotional. “‘S just a dog, really.” 

“It’s not,” Aziraphale started to say, but he was yawning and Crowley had kept him up late enough. He said one last goodnight for his sake more than Aziraphale’s, flicked off the lamp, and shut the door halfway. 

He fell asleep that night without the TV on, excited to hear what Aziraphale had dreamed about the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, shout out to shabnam_e_maghz! but also i hope everyone reading enjoyed!


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